


Count to Three

by rhymeswithmonth



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Charles is an Awesome Dad, Edie is alive, Emotionally Crippled Erik Is Fun To Read, Erik is badass, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Erik is still a drama queen though, F/M, I really like Azazel, Kidnapping, Lots of POVs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Poor Charles, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Unhappy marriage, charles is not a happy bunny, nobody is happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw counted to three, Erik didn't move the coin. But Shaw didn't kill Edie Eisenhardt. Instead he imprisoned her, used her to force Erik into obedience. Now Erik must work for the man he hates as his multi-purpose assassin/spy. On the run from American authorities Erik finds himself injured and at the mercy of a lonely telepath. As he gets to know the extremely powerful yet bitterly unhappy Charles Xavier, Erik begins to plot the downfall of the man who has tormented him for nearly his entire life.  </p><p>Otherwise diverges from Canon in that Charles never found Raven, so his childhood was pretty crappy. Raven will show up later though. Erik's backstory is a mix between comic and movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired initially by the novel Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett. I read the book while on Vacation in Nova Scotia and, of course, my mind was stuck in the XM fandom so I went ahead and projected the characters into the plot. The story follows a notorious German spy (who has weird un-explained guilt issues) who's running from British authorities who are determined to keep him from delivering the intelligence he's gathered to his people. While running he finds himself in the home of a beautiful British woman whose unhappy marriage spurs her into the arms of the mysterious stranger. The German spy reminded me so much of Erik, and then there's a character in a wheelchair and a bunch of angst so I just felt obligated. There was also no Wifi where I was staying so I didn't have much else to do but write.
> 
> The first few chapters in particular are inspired by the novel, but then it branches out. So kudos to Follett for the beginning of this story. I have the first eleven chapters already written so I'm half-assed editing them and will post them every couple days.
> 
> ALSO: Isabelle is one of Magda's alias' in the comics and I needed a female name for the woman. I was originally going to make it Magda herself, but I wanted to keep it as much in line with the comics and movies as I could so Magda was in Auschwitz at the same time as Erik.

Mr. Lensherr was a striking man.

No, not striking, for he had a way of blending into a crowd. He was tall, but not unusually so. He was also rather thin, but then again, these were difficult times and so many families had had to cutback on daily comforts. His hair was brown with ginger tints, combed neatly back from his high forehead and grey eyes set in a sharp, clean-shaven face.

All in all an attractive enough man of about thirty. His hair was not yet greying, and only a few lines marred the skin around his eyes. Some perhaps, would consider his mouth ugly. All thin lips and too prominent teeth. But if he'd been pretty like a movie star, he would have stood out more.

And yet, something about him was appealing. And okay, maybe Isabelle had been feeling particularly lonely this winter; it had always been her husband's favourite season. When he was alive he would take her out skating on the canal, and then for tea at the little French bakery down the road.

But he'd been dead two years now, and Isabelle wasn't getting any younger. Mr. Lensherr was just around her age and handsome enough, and he'd been living in the rooms above her for a month now, long enough for her to notice that he never brought home any lady friends.

For aside from being handsome in a plain, utilitarian sort of way, Mr. Lensherr was an exemplary neighbour. He didn't come or go at unreasonable hours, leaving at seven to go to his job at the steel mill across town and returning at six to take dinner in his rooms and listening to classical music before retiring at ten o'clock each night. He could be depended upon to join the household for Sunday dinner each week, and to graciously accept the occasional offer for tea. He never brought unsavory company to the building, in fact, he never had anyone over at all, not even his coworkers from the mill.

That was another thing that drew Isabelle; the man was obviously intelligent beyond his station. It was evident in the quiet, gruff comments that were characteristic of their brief exchanges in the hallways. His remarks were always just a bit more clever and insightful than anyone else's. She was sure that he could get a better job if he tried.

She was embarrassed to admit that she may have pursued him a bit. She'd take to wandering out into the hall between their quarters in nothing but her nightgown when she knew he'd be going out. Of course, she didn't expect him to pounce and ravish her immediately, although a little ravishing would not be unwelcome, but she had hoped to see a visible reaction to her state of undress. But he'd barely glanced at her breasts, outlined as they were by the flattering drape of the cream silk, nipples jutting indecently because the halls were unheated and she was perhaps lonelier than she'd ever admit and wandering around in her nightclothes was so very uncharacteristic and so a little bit exciting.

She didn't normally dare such scandalous behaviour, it was not how she'd been raised. She'd always done right by her parents, went to college for a while and then dropped out to marry respectable banker Danny. They'd been talking about trying to have a baby before the accident.

But Isabelle was a woman, and she was certain that you'd be hard pressed to find a woman who wouldn't be excited by this tall, mysterious man. It made so much sense, he was handsome, she knew that she was pretty enough, lonely neighbours finding solace in each others' arms.

The only problem was that he just didn't seem interested in what she offered. The late night, scantly clad encounters, a hint of thigh waved tantalizingly during tea, he greeted each blankly and apathetically. So Isabelle decided that it was time to be more direct.

She donned her sheerest nightgown and as an extra measure undid the top two buttons at the collar. She brushed out her hair over her shoulder so that it fell in tumbling waves nearly to her waist. She didn't often wear it down, but she was actually quite proud of her chestnut locks. Then she left her rooms, closing the door quietly behind her and set off up the stairs, her heart pounding with anticipation.

She had this fantasy, that he'd open the door, preferably half way through undressing. He wouldn't had cared enough to put his shirt back on, thinking that it was perhaps their landlord come to call and when he saw it was her he'd apologize profusely, worried that he'd insulted her. She'd silence him with the press of a single finger to his thin lips and step into the room, up against his slender body. He'd then realize all of a sudden that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, that the months of stifling his lust had been pointless because this conclusion, falling into bed with her, was inevitable.

Isabelle had had a spot of scotch, for courage, and that may have been affecting her sense of reality a bit.

It was impossible to be silent on the stairs, for they were quite old and had a few squeaky boards, but the tinkle of piano music coming from upstairs would mask her approach somewhat. She hurried up and rapped softly on the door at the top.

"I'm not dressed!" came the immediate, barked response.

Isabelle's heart skipped and she set her face into what she hoped was a seductive smile. She had procured the spare key to Mr. Lensherr's rooms from the landlord earlier, so she unlocked the door and as it swung forward said, "Neither am I."

Mr. Lensherr was in front of her at once, in more clothes than she would have liked. He still had his undershirt on, though she got a nice view of his well-formed arms and the top of his chest. He actually looked rather pale and nervous, so she opened her mouth to try and dispel his fears, but she was interrupted when he swooped down and kissed her.

She tried the savor the victory, but she was rather shocked so it took her a long moment to begin to appreciate the feel of his mouth on her own. That had been quite a lot easier than she'd thought it would be.

Oh but she hadn't touched a man like this in so long! She felt suddenly lightheaded, and so sagged against Mr. Lensherr's lean frame for support. She didn't think he'd mind.

But as she leaned, she felt a sharp pain in her side, and then warmth spreading. She drew away slightly, mouth leaving the man's with a wet sound to feel at her ribs and oh! She appeared to have been stabbed!

She sucked in air to have a good scream, but suddenly Mr. Lensherr's fingers were in her mouth, choking her. She gaped up at him, moaning despairingly around the appendages. The man's face was ash pale, but his sharp jaw was set in determination and there was another searing pain right under her ribs. She looked down through fear filled eyes to see the front of her fine nightgown soaked crimson. Her vision swam and belatedly she thought to strike out with her hands. She connected with Mr. Lensherr's firm chest, but then the hand that wasn't in her mouth wrapped around both of her wrists, holding tight.

Another point of pain blossomed, in her stomach this time. Her legs gave away but she stayed upright against Mr. Lensherr. She goggled in horror at the man, rivulets of hot blood trickling down her legs to pool in her slippers.

She tasted blood bubbling around the man's fingers, rising in her throat and trickling down her chin. His hand was a solid manacle around her arms and then, when she thought she couldn't stand it anymore; here was a cool touch to her throat and then nothing.

xxx

Erik calmly stepped over the body to close the door, then headed to the bathroom and vomited his supper into the toilet.

He wiped his mouth as the sick spun down the drain, then stumbled back to brace himself against the tiled wall. He heaved a tired sigh. There went another meal, and he was trying so hard to gain weight.

He flushed again, to make sure all the vomit was gone, and then ran the tap until it was ice cold. He stuck his entire head under the stream and forced himself to stay there for a full minute before scrubbing a towel roughly over his face.

There was no real use in washing up before he dealt with the corpse in his foyer, but Erik let the water run over his blood-smeared hands anyway. He just needed a moment to collect himself, to let the panic that had set in the moment the foolish woman had stepped into his room abate. Calm down and let his training kick in, forming a list of priorities in his mind as he picked at the crimson underneath his fingernails.

He dried his hands, pushed his hair back from where it had fallen messily into his face and stepped back into the main room.

Widow Maximoff lay sprawled in the entrance, pool of blood slowly spreading over the dark oak floorboards. Erik steeled himself and knelt beside the body, turned her head to examine the gash in her neck.

She'd taken him by surprise and he'd been sloppy as a result. His grip on his knife had faltered and he'd missed her vitals the first two times, making a mess and causing the poor woman unnecessary pain before finally managing to cut her neck. Erik summoned the knife from where it had been knocked into the corner, the familiar metal responding immediately and flying to his palm.

He grasped the front of her stained gown and yanked it open along the row of pearl buttons. The material gave easily, some buttons popping off and scattering across the floor. The smooth expanse of milky skin was marred by the two slashes, the initial one on her side and then the slightly more effective blow to her stomach. The fine silk pooled around her slender arms, exposing her small pale breasts.

Poor, lonely woman, she'd only hoped to seduce him. If she'd just waited for him to open the door on his own time, just been patient, this needn't have happened. He'd only needed a minute to tuck away the transmitter and shove his papers into the special drawer he kept them in.

Erik slipped the sharp edge of his knife under the woman's lacy undergarments and ripped them open uncovering the dark curls of her pubic hair. If he really wanted to be thorough he'd hit the body to raise bruises, to more convincingly mimic a crime of passion.

But he couldn't quite bring himself to strike a corpse. He stood, leaving the dead woman on the floor and stripped his blood-splattered undershirt and trousers off, then got dressed in fresh cloths. He wrapped his thick wool scarf around his neck and shrugged into his winter jacket.

He would have to disappear. He methodically packed the transmitter into its carrying case, collected the few books and documents that he needed, and slipped out the door, leaving his key on the table.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles got married in his army greens.

He was booked to ship out in a week. It had been a spontaneous, rash decision on his part, stemming from an inborn guilt based on his inherited life of excess as well as an all-consuming desire to get away from the people he called family. The solution to his turmoils seemed to be to enlist.

His Mother had been appropriately shocked and suitably horrified, swooning and gasping when he'd told her, although he knew for a fact that the act was for the benefit of Mrs Emerson who'd been over for tea at the time, and that although she felt a faint sense of sadness for the departure of her only son, she was for the most part simply concerned over the social implications.

Kurt on the other hand didn't even bother to hide his delight. "Builds character!" he'd been touting for the past few months, "Worldy experience." was another and "Fighting for our nation!" made the cut as well. Anyone, even without the ability to see his darkest thoughts, the ones that hoped for his stepson's timely death overseas leaving the Xavier inheritance all to Kurt and his own son, could see that the man would not be sorry to see Charles go.

So this whirlwind romance and hurried ceremony, this was all for them. For Kurt and Cain Marko, Charles stood on this alter, one last insult from the upstart, good for nothing achedemic. Providing a new contender for the fortune in the unfortunate circumstance that Charles be killed in combat.

He looked out over the crowd and met Kurt's eyes. Oh the man was steaming! His thoughts were a tangled broil of hatred and fury and desperation. Charles was used to the first two, but the third was new and slightly alarming. The man on his darkest day had even considered the possibility of murdering Charles' future wife in order to ensure that the line of succession pass to him. He wouldn't actually do it, but the fact that the thought had been entertained was unsettling.

His mother, to her husband's right, was working her way to an orchestrated cry. There was a sense of finallyfinallyfinally there, a smug pleasure at the extravigance of the ceremony, much better than the Richards' boy's wedding a month back, and a touch of impatience at the speed of the proceedings. The Xavier complexion, you must know, burns easily on cloudless days like this.

Cain hadn't shown, which was fine with Charles. His mother had been furious, it was poor form for the stepbrother of the groom to be absent. But Charles was rather relieved. Because where Charles doubted Kurt's conviction in the desire to murder, his son was a different case. The man was greedy and malicious and not at all hesitant to fight for what he wanted. He'd have to warn Gabrielle to be careful when he was gone.

His fiancée, his girlfriend of two measly months, his bride his soon to be wife had entered to room while he'd been distracted by the minds of the guests, and was now climbing the steps of the alter.

Charles fixed a giddy-groom smile on his face and reached out to take Gabby's hands. The crowd cooed quietly at the display of what was surly true love.

Gabrielle Haller was a beautiful woman. To others that meant that she had long, pin straight black hair and long-lashed amber eyes. To Charles her beauty was most evident in her mind. Gabby's thoughts were the purest of any adult he'd met, and that had drawn him to her. The innocent tone of her mind was a refreshing break from the reeking corruption that flavoured most of humanity.

The reason, of course was that Gabby still had the mind of a young teenager. Charles had come across the comatose young woman while in training two months back. Gabrielle Haller had been unconscious since she was fourteen. Now, after six years of unawareness, the young woman presented Charles with a delightful novelty. He may have rummaged around a bit in her brain, reattaching stands of thoughts and soothing damaged areas, chipping away at the areas of trauma which had caused her to fall into that state in the first place, and then giving her a gentle shove to wake up.

It had been written as a miracle. After over half a decade they'd almost given up hope. To find that not only was the girl awake, but she'd also blissfully forgotten the horrors that had triggered the coma. It was the ideal situation.

Gabrielle had awakened to Charles' face, and his mind against hers. She'd fallen for him, then and there, on a conscious and subconscious level, her mind recognizing that he'd saved her, even when she herself couldn't.

That left Charles to the complicated task that was courting a fourteen year old. Gabrielle crushed like a teenager, and was utterly unsure of what to do with the new, mature body she found herself in. She was besotted with him that was a sure thing, but what did a teenager know of adult relationships?

But Gabby (as she'd gigglingly insisted he call her) was an enthusiastic learner. Throwing caution to the wind like only an infatuated teen could, she'd thrown her twenty-year-old body at Charles eagerly. And Charles, never one to be a prude, had shrugged and gone with it.

He supposed he should feel guilty about using such youthful innocence to achieve his own selfish means- mostly pissing off the Markos- but Gabrielle seemed straight out delighted to help him do so. Anyway, she was getting a fortune and a prestigious name in return.

The minister said his piece, Charles dutifully repeated the parts he had to while at the same time listening wih some amusement to the man's distaste for the whole thing. And oh, he'd heard whispers that the Xavier boy was an atheist, and that Ms Haller was a Jew, both equally damning sins in his mind.

Vows said, rings exchanged, blessing (grudgingly) given, Charles took his new wife in his arms and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth. Gabrielle, still lacking an adult sense of propriety, threw her arms around his neck and opened her mouth passionately.

Charles could hear the gossip mills starting up, and tried to as gently as he could put some distance between him and his new wife. Oh dear his mother was absolutely mortified poor old girl. The other guests were all delighted at the new tidbit of scandal, and the only people who were feeling pure happiness for the young couple was the small group of nurses who'd come in from the city to see their precious Gabby married.

The reception passed in a whirl of too-rich food and false well wishings from the guests. Gabrielle was ecstatic as people she'd heard about of the radio or television, or seen in magazines patted her cheek and presented her with extravigant gifts. For Charles, it was just another party consisting of people who hated each other but pretended to be friends.

Finally, he helped Gabrielle into the backseat of the Bentley, helped arrange the voluminous folds of her dress around her, and squeezed in beside her. With the elite of New York waving them off, they pulled out of the church lot and onto the road.

Gabrielle had been brokenhearted that they wouldn't get a proper honeymoon, but was slightly placated when he'd shown her the Weschester estate. He knew that her idea of a dream vacation was the classic private villa in the Bahamas or the Caribbean, moonlit beach walks and romantic sunsets had coloured her mind pink orange and purple for weeks.

But Charles selfishly had shot down the tropical locations under the farce of his imminent deployment. In reality he just didn't want to go. Xaviers really did burn easily, that wasn't just his mother crying for attention. And he didn't like the way his legs looked in shorts, and sandals didn't agree with his feet. Thankfully, the mansion in the countryside reminded Gabrielle of a castle, appealing nicely to her childish fantasy that he was a prince who was whisking her off to a fairy tail life.

The sun had set, the clear winter sky now speckled with bright pinpricks of stars. The interior of the car was soothingly quiet after such a busy day, and Charles allowed himself to sink back into the seat and relax. Gabrielle leaned against his shoulder, a not unwelcome warmth at his side and dozed peacefully. The driver's thoughts were pleasent enough, half a mind on the road and the other half on his brand new granddaughter and how she'd clung to his finger earlier that day. It was lovely.

The road to Westchester was very nearly deserted at this time of night, and the few cars they passed chugged slowly along the patch-ice.

Except for the one that hit them, coming around the bend full speed and skidding sideways straight into them.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik knew at once that the rendezvous had been compromised.

He could see his contact waiting at the designated table on the restaurant patio. The man was young and apparently inexperienced because he had yet to notice the tail who'd been following him for the past hour.

Erik walked by twice in forty-five minutes; both times the woman was still there.

To the agent's credit, she didn't look like the government type. For one thing, she was a woman and that in itself was unusual. She was pretty, with dark auburn hair pinned back underneath a fashionable hat. Her clothes were meant to give the impression of an upper-class wife, put together to be seen, but not practical for doing any sort of work. Dark glasses obscured her eyes, which were likely scanning the street rather than the menu, which she held open in front of her.

Despite the obvious care that had been put into her persona, Erik saw through it right away. Because he was better than they were. It was a shame that his contact wasn't.

Erik pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and leaned against the telephone booth around the corner from the rendezvous. He didn't actually smoke as a habit, it was just a useful excuse to have when one needed to loiter or slip out of a room without arousing suspicion.

A couple young boys were poking at a stray cat in the alley beside him. The unfortunate animal was protesting feebly, backed up against a trashcan. It's yowls ground at the persistent headache that had been building behind Erik's eyes all morning. "Hey, you there!" he barked at the little rascals. One of them, a mangy redhead whose skin went pale under the combination of dirt and freckles that marred it, ran off down the street as soon as he caught sight of the intimidating stranger. His companion, a scrawny blond had a touch more guts and hung back.

"Me?" he asked boldly, fists clenched at his sides. This was a kid who knew how to fight. Erik looked at his tattered clothes, a kindred spirit then.

Erik nodded and waved the mite forward, "What's your name kid?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just wondering if you'd be interested in making a quick buck, but by your tone I'd say that you weren't."

This caught the kid's attention and he crept forward more eagerly, "Naw I din't say that! Whatcha want me to do then?"

"What's your name?"

"Alex."

"Okay Alex, all you have to do is take this," Erik ripped a page from the German bible in his hand, quickly scrawled the phone number of the booth in the margin and held it out for the boy to take, "And give it to the Spaniard at that Italian place across the street. He'll give you the dollar."

The blond's eyebrows shot up to his scabby hairline. A whole dollar was a lot for a simple delivery, but Erik had long since learned that overpayment was the simplest way to earn the loyalty of the world's lowlife.

"All right then give it here!" the boy snatched the page and trotted off around the corner. Erik followed more slowly, and turned onto the sidewalk just in time to see his contact hand the urchin a coin. He then got up and went inside, presumably to pay the bill. Erik slunk back to the alley, ignored the cat licking its wounds, and settled back to wait.

Just ten minutes later, the phone in the booth rang shrilly. Erik grabbed it out of the cradle before the second ring and hissed into the receiver, "Who are your mother and father?"

"We are the children of no humans," came the reply, in a soft, lightly accented voice.

"We are the children of the atom." They finished in unison.

"I need to see you!" the agent said hurriedly, he sounded hushed, probably was using a public phone as well where there was a risk of somebody walking in.

"Well you've wasted your chance. You were followed, and if I hadn't noticed everything could have been blown."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know! Can we set up another meeting?"

"Can you leave me a message some how?"

"It needs to be in person, this one's from the top."

"How top?"

"The very top."

Directly from Shaw then. Erik groaned internally. There was no avoiding it then. He hated taking risks like this but if he didn't take the message then Shaw would likely...

Erik refused to think of that. That was not an option. "Fine." he snapped into the phone, probably startling the man on the other end with the vicious tone, "But I'll come to you. Just...go about your day. Act natural, see a show or something, go back to your hotel. I'll come when I'm sure it's safe."

The man agreed. Of course he did, he had no choice. He'd be punished as well if the message didn't get passed along.

Erik finished his cigarette. He bought a newspaper and sat on a park bench for an hour so that the timing of he contact's departure and his own wouldn't be linked. The tail had left at the same time as the other man, but he couldn't be sure that they weren't still watching the restaurant. Damn Americans and their paranoia about spies.

At least they were so hung up of the soviets that they hardly ever suspected him. The people of America had been condotioned to fear the foreign agent, but the stock image of the bearded, vodka drinking KGB spy was so ingrained in their minds that the well-dressed, German man smoking in the park generally flew right under their radars.

Erik made the agent wait until nearly midnight to approach him. He hadn't been hard to find, Janos Quested, born in the south of Spain, recently arrived from the USSR, staying in the Plaza Hotel, room 617.

Locked doors and bared windows did nothing to deter Erik, and he was in the suite, ghosting up to the bed in the cover of the pitch-black room. It seemed that Quested had grown tired of waiting and dozed off. Bad form. He flicked the flashlight on, shone it into the sleeping face, covered the man's mouth with his hand and straddled the bed.

Quested woke with a yell and tried to buck him off. Erik held firm and called the metal bed frame to bend and coil around the man's flailing arms. "Be calm!" he hissed in his ear, "And tell me who are your Mother and Father."

He freed Quested's mouth so that he was able to reply properly. Once the formalities were exchanged, Erik demanded the message.

"Show me your face first!" Quested asked shakily, "If you are him, if you are truly...Magnus."

"Don't be a fool, just give the message!"

The man struggled against his bonds and the air in the room began to whirl around Erik's head, the drapes billowing in the miniature tempest. "Stop that!" Erik snarled, bringing his knife to hand and pressing it into the hollow at the base of the man's neck. He momentarily allowed the light to fall onto his face, "Satisfied?"

The man nodded mutely before launching into the aforementioned message. Apparently Shaw wanted Erik to go to DC to gather vital information pertaining to the government's upcoming missile plans, as well as some security protocols.

"You'll need to track movement of forces, number of units, technologies, notable commanders-"

"I know how to gather intelligence." Erik interrupted, "Don't tell me how to do a job that I've been doing for fifteen years." twelve years, but whatever, fifteen sounded better. Quested took the hint and shut up. Erik glared at him distastefully, hating him because he was one of Shaw's lackeys. Hypocritical sure, but Erik's situation was different, had to be different.

Except that it might not be. Janos Quested might very well have someone he loved being held by Shaw, held at gun barrel unless he perform to satisfaction. The man looked young, younger than Erik by at least five years. Surly too young to have a wife, but a girlfriend? A lover? Or a family member. The Spanish tended to have large families, maybe Shaw had an entire brood of dark, slender Questeds hidden away throughout his many safehouses.

The thought should have caused him to falter, should have made him hesitate with what he had to do next, but it didn't, and his knife slid across Quested's throat cleanly, with only a slight gurgle and widening of those glittering, dark eyes as the younger man died.

"You understand, don't you?" Erik whispered, "If he has even just one of yours you'd understand why I have to do this. I can't afford to take risks, and you did see my face."

The bathroom was directly off the bedroom, and Erik detoured there to throw up before slipping out into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Gabrielle told him about the baby four months before its birth.

In a normal situation, it would have been embarrassing for a man not to notice that his wife was in her third trimester, but he really couldn't bring himself to feel guilty. They hadn't touched, after all, as a husband and wife should since before the wedding.

He'd never made love with his wife.

She went into the city a week before the due date, and came back sixteen days later with his son. She named him David, after her father who'd died in the camps.

David was a joy, and unmistakably Charles' son, despite the numerous vicious rumors to the contrary. His eyes were like miniature copies of his fathers' a bright, cerulean blue that held true as the boy aged. Charles delighted in every moment spent with his little boy, secretly thanking the deities that he didn't believe in for the escape from the hell that his life had become.

David, having just turned three years old, liked nothing better than to sit on Charles' lap as he wheeled them around the echoing rooms of the first floor. He couldn't quite feel his child, the shards of metal that found home in his spine on their wedding night had long since made sure of that, but there was a sort of...sensation of weight there, a pressure against his numb thighs that grew more tangible the farther up it went, until the point where David's warm behind was parked snugly against his stomach.

The muscles in his arms bunched and slid smoothly as he propelled the two of them down one hallway, through cavernous chambers and fine sitting rooms. Their destination, the kitchen, held their sought after prize of cocoa and biscuits.

David's mind was a familiar, beloved presence alongside his. Charles knew this little boy's thoughts as well as his own, having immersed himself in the blurry, not-yet thoughts the moment his baby arrived on his mental radar. The prospect of hot chocolate and cookies made the child's thoughts absolutely sing giddy songs of anticipation.

Charles slowed to wrap his arms around the tiny body and press his temple against the glossy black curls, wanting to sink into the boy's mind and never resurface. But David only put up with that for a moment before impatience made him squirm, and Charles laughingly resumed their trek.

When they reached the dark, cold of the kitchen, David jumped down and headed straight to the dried goods where the cocoa powder resided. Charles had to strain slightly in his chair to flick the light on, but he managed. David set the things out, climbing up onto the counter to reach the mugs, and standing on Charles' lap to get the milk. It always took some maneuvering to get the kettle on the stove and light it up, but he wasn't going to let his three year old try.

They'd developed that routine, his little son and he, out of necessity. Gabrielle, the only fully functioning adult, didn't like being bothered to fetch it. She was probably in bed at the moment. He sent out his awareness to encompass the entire house and yes, there she was, curled up in her room on the third floor. Not asleep though, just curled around a pillow and wallowing in her own self-pity.

It was only seven o'clock, they had an hour until David's designated bedtime. Once the kettle had boiled, David sat on the counter and they stirred the mix into the hot water together, and then moved to their favourite sitting room down the hall to curl up together on the monster of a couch, David with his cocoa and Charles with a cup of Earl Grey.

When the hour struck eight, they pretended not to notice. For another half hour Charles read out loud from the old book of fairy tales they kept stashed in the bookcase for cozy nights such as these. Eventually they migrated to the bathroom to brush David's teeth, wash David's face, and kiss David goodnight. Then the child scampered up the massive grand staircase, after a good amount of encouragement from his father because Gabrielle had forgotten to turn any lights on for him again, to his bedroom next to his mother's three floors above. Charles, as he'd promised, waited at the bottom until he heard the faint click of David's door shutting before he slowly wheeled back to the kitchen to clean up.

There was a spot of cocoa on the counter, close to the wall. No matter how hard he tried, Charles couldn't reach it.

The cleaners would get it then, when they came two days from now. Charles wheeled along the cold empty halls until he reached the bedroom that he'd slept in since the accident. It was just off the library and had been a study for over a century before it had been converted.

When he'd come home at last, after two months recovering in the hospital, he'd simply assumed that Gabrielle would move down with him into the new bedroom since he couldn't get up the two flights of stairs required to reach the master bedroom. It seemed, however, that she had already grown quite fond of the room during his time away.

He understood, of course, perhaps even better than she did herself. To this day, Gabrielle was frightened of him, of his alien, motionless legs, of his spindly metal wheelchair. Afraid of her crippled husband.

They had been married for just two months and they'd not yet slept in the same bed.

Since he'd understood, Charles took it graciously. He would give her time, he had told himself, to come to terms with the new life. It would take time, he knew, it was a huge blow for a woman like Gabrielle, to suddenly be saddled with such a burden.

He'd waited for a year before realizing that the depression that had set in during the weeks after the accident wasn't going to go away, that this was to be their life together, Gabrielle hiding upstairs and Charles doing his best to raise their son below.

The mansion that was to be their honeymoon palace became their prison. David made it bearable, even joyful some days. But there was always the oppressive cloud that was his wife's misery hanging over them.

Kurt had died the previous year, and Cain was off doing who knows what overseas. Sharon never visited, not since David was born. Charles hadn't left the estate now in months. In the beginning he'd made attempts, as hard as it had been on his ruined body, to get out at least once a week. Gabrielle had come, not every time, but enough to put on the air of healing, of a couple staying strong together after a tragedy. Then the excursions had dwindled to every month, and eventually not even that.

There was nothing for him on the outside. His family had given up all pretense of caring, he'd quit his position at the university in order to enlist, and then been honorably discharged before seeing action. The few friends he' had still wrote occasionally, but they were scattered all over the globe, jetsetting most of them, some had settled down in various exotic cities around the globe, living it up like wealthy young people should.

He had David. He was content. He chanted it, his own personal mantra day in day out. David filled his life with toddler games and new discoveries every day. But he was growing up so fast. How long would it be before he realized that the wheelchair wasn't a fun toy but the thing that had ruined his family before he was even born? And before that he would be of age to go off to school and what would Charles do with his days then?

He slowly washed up for bed, did the nightly battle with his pajama bottoms, and hoisted himself into his empty bed. He performed the necessary stretches robotically, knowing that they were required to keep his paralyzed legs limber, but unable to silence the nagging voice in his head, the one that was nobody but his-

What was the point?

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter sorry.

Moira MacTaggert had been waiting for years for him to make a mistake.

He went by many names. Magnus was his code name, known throughout the international community as the most efficient, and most ruthless, spymaster and assassin. Erik Lensherr was his preferred alias, the quiet young man with the indistinguishable accent and smooth, handsome face.

Birth name Max Eisenhardt. Moira was one of the few people privy to the fact. Maximilian Eisenhardt, born to Edith and Jakob Eisenhardt in Heidelberg, Germany, raised Jewish his family fled to Poland after the Nuremberg laws were passed, but were captured not long after and at the age of fourteen he was incarcerated in Auschwitz concentration camp. Prisoner number 214782. Jakob Eisenhardt perished in the camp showers, but Edith and Max seem to have disappeared from the record books.

Moira looked down at the dingy photograph attached to the file. It had been taken in a ghetto in Poland, shortly before the Eisenhardts were apprehended. A group of teenaged boys stood in rags, their thin faces staring up at her, all hungry eyes and narrow mouths. Their clothes hung off their bodies at the same time hiding and making painfully clear their malnourished states. But their wide smiles lit the picture, spreading between sharp cheekbones.

At the centre of the group of youths stood Max Eisenhardt, with the biggest smile of them all, far too much tooth in such a young face. It was his Bar mitzvah, a little late, delayed by their flight from Germany. Held in secret no doubt, as so many were in those days, in underground synagogs across Europe the young Jewish boys and girls were allowed a day to feel proud of their heritage.

The happiness frozen in the photo was marred by the knowledge of what happened mere months later, when the Ghetto was ransacked by Gestapo agents, the survivors being dragged into the various camps across Europe. It was very likely that most of the children in the picture were long dead.

But not Max Eisenhardt.

The CIA had been tracking the string of murders for over a decade now, the brutal killings performed by the international enigma that was the assassin Magnus. Magnus killed indiscriminately, or that was how it appeared. There was almost certainly reason behind the kills, a pattern linking the dozens of bloodied corpses that ranged in placement from Asia to South America. Some victims made more sense than others, like the Italian mob-boss found sprawled on the floor of his Vegas hotel room, naked and bloated, throat gaping open grotesquely, or the most recent one, a young Spanish immigrant who'd been linked back to a criminal organization in Madrid that was thought to be associated with powers in the Soviet Union.

Others were by all appearances, completely random. Magnus disposed of an elderly hotdog vender in Toronto, a hotel concierge in Chicago, a whole bar or people in Mexico City. The kills were only connected by the method of murder, a neat slash to the throat, often the only wound but not always, and his calling card, a silver German coin tucked into their pocket. Flashy and melodramatic, and a little sloppy as it gave the police a method with which to track his erratic course around the world. But that was his only sloppy habit, other than that he was impeccably careful not to slip up.

And then his mistake, Mrs Isabelle Maximoff, a pretty young widow living in New Jersey.

A mistake for multiple reasons. First, to have murdered somebody directly tied to his favourite persona, so called Mr Erik Lensherr. Mr Lensherr had been employed for seven months at a steel mill in Trenton, had lived in a boarding house with Mrs Maximoff and two other tenants for the same amount of time.

Second mistake, leaving the body in his room, rather poorly disguised as attempted rape gone wrong. He could have at least tried a little harder, it had taken no time at all to discern that no such assault had taken place. That in itself wouldn't have been very detrimental in the end if it hadn't been for mistake number three...

He should have killed the other occupants of the house.

The landlord Mr Samuel Sawler and his wife Diane, and Joseph Klein, a grad student at Birkbeck. There were also the many employees he'd worked alongside for months, unmasked and exposed. These were people who knew his face, knew his mannerisms and habits, and knew his name.

On a hunch they'd used the few photos they'd had of Maz Eisenhardt, simply because the timing fit with he boy's halted paper trail, and the murders had started in Germany with a few ex-Nazis. The crime scenes had been far less impeccable than the ones in the years following, but it was where he coins had begun to appear. The neighbours coworkers had looked at the photos, the Bar Mitzvah one and one from a few years later, from the Auschwitz records of Max at seventeen, the last documentation of his life. Every single witness had given positive identification.

They finally had a name.

Moira had been waiting for years, ever since she'd started tracking the faceless killer, for him to make a mistake. Now she had a whole plethora to choose from.


End file.
